Seven Reasons Why
by effervescence07
Summary: How to win an Arts' Scholarship: 1. Do not engage in boozefest the night before your interview. 2. If offered any suspicious smelling drinks at boozefest, reject 3. If forced to transfer to a school for supernatural creatures, veer towards nearest exit 4. If your overly-attractive tutor says you look like the 8th long-lost dwarf and happens to go by the name of Jace, fire him. Now.
1. Chapter 1: A night in bed with Spock

**Your good 'ol disclaimer: **

ϟ _Disclaimer: I do not own Cassandra Clare. Nor do I own said author's couch, characters or works of great literary wonders. I also do not own the pen from which the wondrous goddess of all things hot and smutty, i.e., Jace, was conceived. Although my plan to obtain said pen is in progress._

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**Author's note:** Hey lovelies! Fresh start for me on this account, so don't mind my pitiful excuse for a profile. So please, sit back, grab a beer/cup of milk (safer option), kick them summer legs up, and enjoy the ride. Rainbow unicorn for all reviewers.

**FULL SUMMARY (because I refuse to let my greatness be governed by a 384 character limit) Hereeee you go: **

The How-to-Guide for winning the Van De Garde Arts' Scholarship: 1. Do not accept an invite to a party the night before your admittance interview (particularly from Isabelle Lightwood) 2. If offered any suspicious smelling drinks at aforementioned party, reject. 3. If forced into transferring to a school for supernatural creatures seemingly plucked from a page of Twilight, veer towards closest exit sign. And 4. If your overly-attractive, overly-confident tutor tells you that you look like the 8th long-lost dwarf crossed with Little Red Riding Hood, and goes by the name of Jace, fire him. You have been _warned. _Clary, however, was not.

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**CHAPTER ONE: **A night in bed with Spock

'Do you know what that smell is?' The man gave an exaggerated whiff of the fairly scent-less air, treating the three other people in the room with a first-class view of his untamed nostril hair.

_Your body odour?_

'That,' he raged on, 'is the smell of failure.' He scrunched up his face and waggled the thick, passion-fuelled eyebrows – which resembled fat, overstuffed caterpillars more than anything else – on his forehead. 'And it disgusts me.'

They watched unflinchingly as his fist landed onto the executive mahogany table, sending mini shockwaves through the precious wood. 'It's been four. Whole. MONTHS.' He bellowed, and then in a quieter, deadly voice added, 'Is there an issue?'

Ooh, _not a happy camper._

Breaths drew in. Silence hung over the room, dripping with morbidity that seemed to physically weigh down on the clothes of the three other figures. They were clad in all black and stood respectfully at attention before the table, eyes cast downwards to avoid contact with the riled man on the other side. When no one else spoke, the figure on the left gave a curt, 'We'll find her, Sir.'

He shook off the black tassels of hair pasted to his face, perhaps in exasperation, and turned his backs to them this time, as if just the sight of the three figures was enough to expel him into the pits of hell. Then he tapped his foot. Once, twice, and then a third time. 'When I send you three out there, I expect _results_.' His voice was louder this time, edged with an icy tone of distaste.

'I know, and you'll get them.' It was the one in the middle who spoke this time, his voice a tone lower; more serious. He had this whole faux-confidence thing working for him, but the incessant foot tapping seemed to be quashing his efforts. 'Just give us a couple—' Hesitation leaked through his voice, and he cleared his throat to fight it, 'just a couple more weeks. Sir.'

The man spun around, and the three figures jumped. 'I'll give you one.' He said, and the voice was definitely louder this time. 'Now get out of my office, and the next time I see you, you'd better have the girl with you.'

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'ONE MINUTE.' Clary held up a hand to silence her best friend as she rifled through a pile of paper, humming to herself. Her hand brushed passed a bundle of bills, and a flurry of paperwork avalanched onto her cat underneath the table, sending Mr Tiddybomboms diving for cover. He glared upwards, and his face radiated a 'pissed-off-cat' sort of look as he let out a sully screech of annoyance. Clary spared him a quick, sympathetic glance and a hasty pat of apology.

Simon frowned and pointed at the pile of paper now strewn on the floor. 'Aren't you going to pick that up?' He shook his head in disbelief when Clary ignored him, gingerly crouching down and plucking up the bits and pieces of junk, his hand heading straight for the trash can. He paused and looked at Mr. Tiddy in baffled contemplation, 'how does she function in this mess?' he asked it. The cat seemed to return his look of bemused annoyance.

'It's not mess, Simon,' Clary explained, turning to face him, 'it's a pretty pile of papery chaos.' She plucked an excessively pink pen in the shape of a flamingo out of the pen holder, and hastily scribbled out a message on a corner torn off her mother's bank statement: _Hi mom, don't freak out. Just a reminder, I'm sleeping over at Simon's… _She paused and looked back up at Simon, twisting her mouth in thought.

Clearly, fifteen years of friendship had counted towards something as he read her mind. 'Uh, say we're working on that project about medieval…uh, Hebrew culture together.'

_Believable. Not that she would ever, _ever _in any alternate universe, take AP History. But, believable. _Clary narrowed her eyes, 'You really can't think of anything better?'

He returned her glare, 'and you can?'

Clary shrugged and finished the note. She pinned the paper to the orange spray-painted corkboard beside their refrigerator, assessing it for a moment. She took a brief step backwards, tilting her head up and narrowing her eyes as if the message would betray her if viewed from a different angle. Once satisfied it remained faithful, she hurriedly followed Simon to the door, hitching up her stilettos by the straps, and snatching the keys off the door handle. 'Now we can go.'

Simon splayed his hands in mock surprise, muttering to himself, 'and here I thought we'd never leave before the end of the century.' He grabbed his coat and trailed after Clary, the keys to his century-old ride in hand.

Half an hour later, they found themselves in a complete standstill.

'YOU IDIOT.' Clary moaned, 'I said UPTOWN, you dumb sloth. UPTOWN.'

'Wait—' Simon yelled, his eyes wide. 'It's fine. It's fine, calm down, I can turn. Right… there.' He squinted, and poked his tongue out in consternation, as he swerved into the exit lane. His sudden move, evidently, was not met well by the other drivers who responded with a chorus of angry beeps, and the car directly behind them had to lurch back dramatically only to narrowly miss scratching their bumper. 'Just for the record, you told me to take a left on Baker's, and _then_ a right at the lights and to keep going till I reached the highway, and _then_ to take the seventh exit.' He said pointedly. 'And that's what I did.'

'What? I told you third!' She scowled. 'Seventh would take you to like…the Guadalajara desert.'

'You know what would help?' Simon replied mildly, trying to reason with her. 'If you would actually tell me where we're going, instead of ejecting phrases of mindless, cryptic babble right before every turn; maybe then we'd actually get there. I'm sure my bumper would also appreciate the sentiment.'

Clary snorted indignantly, 'Well if you'd actually listened to my _mindless, cryptic babble_ then you'd realize they were _directions, _and _then_, you would realize that you don't need to know _where_ we're going to end up, only how to get there.'

Simon looked annoyed. 'Oh, just tell me already.'

'A club.' She said vaguely, before finally deciding that she would free him from his agony. She fumbled for the invitation card in her clutch. As soon as her hand made contact with the card, she felt a tingling sensation being swept up through her fingers. She shook it off as excitement and flashed it at him, before bringing it back down to eye-level and reading it out to him—being the kind, generous friend she was. 'The Pandemonium Club,' she announced, '8pm, free drinks. Free hooks. Bring your A-game! Be there. X, x, love Izzy.'

The card, just like the sender, was absolutely gorgeous. The words were written in lacey pink tendrils, printed on a delicate, papery-satiny sort of material that felt nice under Clary's fingertips. It felt like it was covered with what Clary imagined the 1000 ply toilet paper they had in the guest bathrooms of the Royal Palace, would feel like. Reading the card through again, she began weighing her thoughts. The more she looked at it and the more times she re-read it, the more she was drawn in by the offer. It was like a little hand had materialized out of one of the glimmering tendrils, and pulled and tugged at her conscience until she'd relented. And then it continued to do its job by knocking out the little voice that kept reminding her that her interview with the Van De Garde Young Artists' Scholarship Scheme, was in fact, tomorrow evening. Clary generally didn't like creepy little hands reaching into her and messing with her soul, so she quickly shook off the thought and pocketed the invitation.

'Oh, my God, Clary.' Simon breathed, snapping her out of her trance. His eyes widened dramatically, seemingly super-ultra magnified by his glasses. It gave him this stunned doe-eyed look, and Clary couldn't help but laugh.

_You see, _Clary thought to herself, mentally preparing herself for the shit to hit. _This is why I had devised a plan to keep you clueless until we _got_ there and your keys were stashed safely in my clutch. And all alternate escape routes were eliminated._

Simon stared at her in disbelief. 'No—that girl… that _oh-my-gosh-this-is-like-so-cute-and-that-is-like-also-so-cute _girl's party?' His voice had gone comically high, imitating Isabelle Lightwood's overly chirpy way of speaking. '_THAT GIRL?_ Oh, please, Clarissa, please for the love of God, tell me that you did not force me to drive you to _that _girl's party? And you have that— that, Van-the-Car scholarship interview tomorrow! You'll never make it back in time.' He gasped.

'Van De _Garde._' Clary shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, the heat plastering her plum dress to her skin as she pursed her lips. 'You do know there is this pedal that makes your car go faster, right? Yeah, well if you try putting your foot on it maybe we _will _make it back in time. It doesn't even start till, like, eight in the evening, anyways.' She flicked her wrist up to look at an invisible watch, 'that gives you… just over 25 hours to figure out that pedal.'

'Does this look like a magic school bus to you? I'm trying here, but there's only so much one can do with their Great Aunt's 1986 Toyota.' Simon countered. He gestured towards the window; once again, the traffic had come to a complete standstill. 'So when did _you_ finally decide that clubs aren't really hellhole-ish pits full of dark magic and intense evil? I've never even heard 'Clary' and 'party' used together in one sentence.' He shook his head and pursed his lips. 'Never. It's unheard of.'

'Um, not true. So I'm not always in the mood to be rubbed up against by men marinated in their own BO, doesn't mean I hate parties.'

He shrugged, 'Well you rejected mine.'

'That's only because it was frog-themed.'

'_Amphibian_-themed.' He shrugged, trying to hide the hurt. 'I was twelve.' Then he frowned. 'So you said yes to that girl? And not me? Who is this Annabel chick anyways? Is she giving away free art supplies as party favours?' He didn't do well at hiding his self-satisfied grin.

She swatted him with her clutch. 'Oh, says the freak who gave away Doctor Who tea infuser sets for party favours? And her name is Isabelle. We're friends. It's her birthday. I want to celebrate it with her. What's the deal?' _Lies. _Clary thought to herself. Even though Isabelle was nice—excessively nice, even— Clary had to admit that, in reality, Isabelle sat (or, more likely, stood proudly in her six-inch stilettos) somewhere between an acquaintance and a distant friend. Someone you'd walk past in the hallway and flash a friendly smile, a curt nod of the head. _Simon, however, didn't need to know that._

He sucked air through his teeth, a dramatic questioning look marked on his face. 'Everything. Everything's the deal, and I'm not buying it.'

'Fine.' She shrugged, 'Believe what you will. She's actually possessing me and forcing me to attend her party on pain of social death. Does that make you less suspicious?' Clary joked, but even so, there was a tiny voice somewhere in the back of her mind that echoed the same confusion. She shrugged it off. Of course she'd elected to go on her own volition. Simon was just being his usual weird self.

'Then give me one legitimate reason why I shouldn't just turn this car around _right now, _and defend my rights to spend my night in bed with Spock_.'_ A momentary pause. 'Spend my night in bed _watching _Spock.' Another pause. 'In a totally platonic way.'

Clary laughed. 'Well, it's Spock or Izzy. Your pick; but let me remind you, you've been crushing on her for, like, the last five months. Now's your chance to get within a ten-mile radius of her. Works out for the both of us.'

'Hey,' Simon protested, 'not crushing. Just… looking. At her. Sometimes. On the rare occasion.' He mumbled, not meeting Clary's eyes. 'Only as frequently as permitted normal by the standards of any hot-blooded male. Look, she's not my type anyways, she's just so ditzy and glitzy and glam...and a bit deficient in the brain's department for me. I like a woman of sophistication. So, in summary, not crushing. Just looking.'

'Well, I think you should stop watching people. First Spock, now Izzy?' Clary smirked, 'and, sorry, what was that? Isabelle not good enough for our lofty Simon, eh? You do realize that just because she doesn't acknowledge your existence, it doesn't make her mentally impaired. And she's not that ditzy.'

'I think 'deficient' was the word I used.' Simon said, matter-of-factly, 'And now you're defending her? What, you guys are best friends now? You never usually have many nice words to say about her crowd. Or anyone for that fact. You should really consider saving your kind words for more worthy people. Me, for instance.'

'But Isabelle's different.' Clary insisted. _Oh, here we go again. Got to stop with the defending, Clary. Perhaps try the offensive. _She cranked up the sarcasm. 'And I feel like sometimes,' she shot him a look, 'just sometimes, I like her better than you. Now, for example, is one of those times.'

He pouted. 'Well, now that's just hurtful,' he sobbed, wiping a non-existent tear from his face.

Clary sighed, 'I don't really know what it is, but she just… she makes an effort, you know? We were partners on that piece-of-shit Chem assignment Mr. Hopkins decided to make worth fifty percent of our grade, and she's actually smarter than you give her credit for her. And I think… I _think_, that maybe she's actually just genuinely… nice.'

'Either that, or she's just playing that card to help herself up the social ladder,' said Simon, 'and it looks like it's working. '

'But that's the thing!' Clary urged, 'She doesn't _need _to be nice. She can still be an irritating, whiny bitch like all her friends, and still have all the jocks and the mathletes bowing down as her faithful little minions. And there's three reasons: number one,' she announced, putting up a finger, 'she's hot. Number two, she has the _best _goddamn gazelle legs out—'

'And doesn't have the self-respect _not _to flaunt them,' muttered Simon.

'—and third,' Clary continued, 'she's hot.'

'You said hot twice,' Simon looked at her, 'and all three of your 'reasons' gravitates around her hotness.'

Clary nodded, 'my point exactly.'

_And evidently, _she thought to herself,_ not good enough for our own Simon. Oh, the poor man… the poor, deprived little man, withering in a whirlpool of his own denial._

Clary chuckled to herself, finger brushing absentmindedly over the edge of the invitation card, sending another bolt of something akin to excitement through her. She glanced over at Simon, who was still huffing in the driver's seat and trying not to look as anxious and eager as he clearly was. _Oh yes, _she thought as she turned back to watch the road, _tonight was definitely going to be one for the books._

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**Eh? ;) So how was that for my first fanfic in God knows how long (3 years and two months, he says). SO, what do you say? Review? :) **

I do hope you enjoyed it, and I really appreciate the time you've taken to read this. Also, just like to put out a special thanks to Melinda and Sam for their support during the writing process.

Next chapter shall be up within a jiffy. And no worries, Jace will show his fabulous face (MY GOD, THAT RHYMED) very, very soon, as will the charming Izzy, Alec etc. It will be really ace (too far?).

I've got a whole arsenal of little fanfic babies in store, so let me know what you think. In the meantime, any ideas for plot directions or feedback will be printed out and framed in gold. Thank you x


	2. Chapter 2: Lord of the Hebes

**A/N: Thank you dearly for all the reviews and follows and favourites and all the other stuff that makes me feel oh-so happy and tingly inside. They are _fantastic_ mood-lifters, so please, keep them coming! And three cheers for my first reviewer, the lovely xXxJaceInWonderlandxXx. HUZZAH! FOUR FOR YOU GLEN COCO. four for-**

**Ok stop. stop throwing potatoes at my face. No more mean girls quotes. i get it jeez**

**OH AND WARNING: chapter 2 sort of tides over to the next chapter, so I will _personally_ make sure that chapter 3 is up for you by tomorrow (or at least the day after, since you've all been _so_ brilliant). So be patient. Yes, you. Sit down.**

**And read on.**

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**CHAPTER 2: Lord of the Hebes**

'10 o'clock. On. The. Dot.' Simon said approvingly, with a self-satisfactory nod.

'It started at 9.' Clary reminded him before throwing on an exaggerated smile and patting his arm, 'but yes, well done. Claps for you.'

All that was important was that they had arrived. The sun had slipped under the horizon- even it was too impatient to wait for them- leaving behind a bruised sky; not even a sliver of moonlight daring to compete with what stood before them—what seemed to be the most extravagant, not to mention energy-consuming, light display since the Las Vegas Strip. The club's entrance flaunted its prestige with thousands of teeny tiny light bulbs bordering the sign that claimed, '_Where the PANDEMONIUM begins_' casting a gaudy glow on seemingly everything within a two-mile radius.

The red ropes stretching from the entrance snaked along the edge of the building and around half a block, usually restraining an impossibly large bustling crowd of teens and young adults on most nights. But tonight was an exception. Although, how Isabelle's parents had managed to book out New York's hottest under-aged club for their daughter on the busiest night of the week, still remained a mystery. Generally, the idea of booking a single room for private functions in the club would send most sane-minded parents into fits of tears as they reach into their wallets - but booking out the _whole _club? Now that's an entirely different matter.

There were three sleek black limos parked along the curb closest to the bars; each with its own chauffeur standing guard at the door. Clary watched as a goth couple made their way down the carpet with a 'what's going on?' look on their faces, before a bouncer pointed out the 'PRIVATE EVENT, GUESTS ONLY' sign. They walked off, looking a tad pissed, and the guy made a pathetic attempt to lob a cola can at one of the windows on their way out.

Simon examined the place, eye roving from roof to foundation. 'Well, at least we know she's not deficient in the financial department.' He muttered as Clary flashed her invitation to the bouncer guarding the door. They passed through a short corridor that seemed to vibrate along with the music, before Simon dramatically pushed open the double doors into the heart of the club. Streaks of coloured lighting danced across the room, illuminating the tendrils of artificial fog creeping through the masses of scantily-clad bodies.

On the opposite end of the hall, a DJ with holes the size of ten-cent pieces in his ears stirred up the audience. He hugged his mic to his chin, booming through it whilst shaking his ringed fingers in the air, bringing up a roar from the crowds below. On their end there was a line of bodies swarming mindlessly around a bar that promoted non-alcoholic spritzers and mocktails. However, the hammered couple throwing breadsticks and thrashing around on top of a nearby table in a booze-fuelled high told a different story.

A girl in a black spaghetti-strapped number that dipped dangerously low down the middle suddenly shrieked and sauntered over to them in studded stilettos, making her half a head taller than Simon. Long black hair cascaded over bare shoulders, and ridiculously green eyes glimmered under the disco lights; she was unnervingly beautiful, but you could tell it wasn't the type of beauty that could be wiped off with a Kleenex and a bit of make-up remover. She grinned, showing off a set of perfect white teeth.

'Oh, Clary! You made it!' She shrieked, making a happy squealing noise—akin to the sound of a beaver after inhaling unhealthy amounts of helium— and pulled her friend into a hug. 'You could, like, stop traffic with that dress. And you brought your friend… Sam, was it?' She grinned at him.

Simon gulped, and wiped a bead of sweat that had made its home on his forehead. 'Simon,' he tried to say in an manly low voice. Despite his best efforts, however, it came out as an awkward little squeak. It hardly mattered. Isabelle appeared not to hear anything he said anyway.

Clary put on a weak smile, and tried to keep her face neutral, despite her growing desire to throw a napkin at her best friend's face. 'Wouldn't miss it for the world. Yeah, and sorry about—' she flapped her hand vaguely in Simon's direction, 'I hope you don't mind, he was my ride,' she explained, 'This is—'

Simon cleared his throat loudly; a bit too loudly—seemingly bringing more attention to the phlegm clogged in his throat than himself. 'Simon—it's uh, Simon. I mean my name.' He pointed to himself. 'My name's Simon.'

Clary's mouth twitched. _I like a woman of sophistication, my ASS._

Isabelle laughed, 'Oh, you two are _so _cute.' She winked at Clary. 'And don't be silly, Clary, of course I don't _mind_, this is a party, the more guys, the more options for us girls.' She giggled and threw Clary a wink.

'Oh, actually, uh…'

'No, I get it. This one's reserved for you...' Isabelle nodded, glancing between them two knowingly. Simon was rapidly shaking his head. 'Anyways, I've gotta run. My girls are looking for me. So nice meeting you, Sean.' She blew a kiss as she turned and disappeared into the crowd once again.

'Oh, actually it's—' spluttered Simon as he ran a sweaty hand through his hair. 'Uh, bye, then. Bye Isabelle. Nice meeting—'

'Wow,' Clary muttered shaking her head, once Isabelle had slithered off into the sea of bodies.

'Wow is right,' Simon sighed with a glazed look in his eyes. 'She is just so perfect.'

Clary looked back. 'What?' She asked incredulously, 'No, I mean… _you_, you are _such _a…you're like—' She turned her head to see Simon staring blankly at the gap into the crowd that Isabelle had disappeared into. She covered her face in shame and stalked off, Simon hot at her heels.

Half an hour later, after a couple of light spritzers, Clary spotted a bunch of guys from their school in heavy metal t-shirts. Two of them were actually hanging a decent catch around their waists.

'I didn't know Eric was invited.' Clary murmured, as they made their way towards a gang hanging out in a corner.

'Apparently almost all the girls in the grade were,' Simon said, matter-of-factly.

'Oh, that does answer my question.'

Their little 'group' consisted of three guys; Matt, Eric and Kirk. Good old Kirky boy. Clary found him quite entertaining, really. Simon had formed a rock band with them a couple years earlier, and to this day, it was still named 'Untitled', which Kirk thought was the wittiest, most brilliant, inspired thing anyone had ever thought up. _Clearly, _Clary thought, _he didn't do much thinking in his lifetime. _Kirk aside, they were all quite good with numbers and test tubes and calculator buttons and what have you. Looks-wise, they were half-decent. Shame the three of them had the most pathetic one-liners that would make any girl want to keep their distance.

Clary groaned inwardly. She really didn't want to stay long enough to have to hear Eric tell some girl that she was the 'apple of his _i_-mac', and go through the agony of watching the girl attempt to exercise her two brain cells to try and decipher what the hell he was saying.

Then, like the sound of an angel, she heard a faint ringing from her purse. _Yes, yes yeeeeeeeeeeees, _Clary breathed, giddy with relief. She swivelled around to face Simon. 'Hey,' she pointed at the group, and gave a curt nod. 'Go join them, I needa get this,' she said vaguely, waving her cell at him.

She headed through a series of corridors, and finally found some silence in a cloakroom of sorts. Upon looking down at her mobile, she realised with a start that the whole screen was plagued with the name 'Mom' followed by 'Missed call'. _Scary. Real scary stuff._

Her thumb hovered briefly above the green answer button, already predicting the incessant interrogation of the classic overprotective mother. She took a deep, meditative breath to brace herself, as she put the phone to her ear.

'Clary?'

She flinched. It was her mother's voice, sounding a little unhinged. As per usual. 'Yes, mom.'

'For God's sakes, where are you?' Her voice sounded a little off key. 'Why won't you answer my calls?'

'I told you… and I even left a note next to the fridge, I'm with Simon. At his house. You know, homework. Um, project on…' her mind spun rapidly, trying to recall what she had written on that piece of paper, 'whatsit, ah, the culture of the uh, Hispanic…s,' she gulped. _Smooth going, Simon. Of _all _things you could think of, it just had to be Hispanic culture, eh? Really, Simon. Hispanic. Or was it Hebrew? Crap, definitely Hebrew. Say something. Say something medieval. '_The uh- Renaissance.' She blurted. 'You know the Renaissance period, and like how there was that whole kerfuffle between the… great lords of… Hebe—rew… land and the, ah Scottish Gaelic tribes. And how—_'_

Silence.

_I think it's working_, a little voice inside Clary's mind rejoiced._ Maybe I should keep going._

'Clary.' She had never heard her name packed with so much viciousness before.

_Maybe not._

'Would you like to lie to me some more?' _Mother of God, it's the voice of death. _'We both know you're not at Simon's. I want an explanation.' Then her voice wavered a little, 'please tell me you're okay. Are you in trouble?'

'Mother, I'm fine.' She twirled a lock of her red hair nervously around her finger. 'Okay, so I lied, I'm not at his house, but we're both safe. I didn't want you to worry. We just took a walk. A long walk—we went to check out this new place in town. But we'll be back. Oh and I'm sleeping over at his place tonight, just by the way. I mean, if that's okay,' she added as an afterthought.

Of all things that characterised the overbearing, won't-let-you-out-of-my-sight mother, the reassurance that she was with Simon, always calmed her down. Oddly enough, her mother had always been completely fine with her sleeping over, but coming home at three in the morning would, without a doubt, result in a yelling match that Clary could do without.

'So you wanted to make sure I didn't worry, by _lying_ to me? Because that always seems to work for you does it?' Her voice was uncharacteristically sharp. 'Leave wherever you are, and come home. Right now, Clary.'

Clary was astonished. This was beyond nuts. 'What? You're kidding. Why?'

Her mother's tone was marked with distaste. 'I'm sorry, do I sound very humorous to you right now? Because I don't feel very humorous. I want you to walk home, right now. You're really starting to wear on my patience, Clary. Wherever you are- and I know you're not out for a walk, Simon's mother said you two are at a party downtown. That is not _safe, _Clary. You need to come home. It's dark outside, and it's dangerous. I'm worried about you. Please.'

Clary exhaled loudly in exasperation. She always knew her mother could be on the nutsy side, but this was a bit extreme, even for her. 'Oh, when are you ever _not_ worried about me?' Her voice had gradually phased into an anguished sort of tone. 'Mom, what's gotten into you? I _told _you, I'm with Simon. We're both safe, and we'll be back before midnight. Please, please, just let me have one night at a party. Is it that much too ask?'

It killed her that her mother didn't trust her enough to take a single step out of the shadows of a world she had spent sixteen years of her life in. Sixteen years she'd been walking on the face of _this_ earth, and yet her mother would always insist on having at least one hand on her shoulder at all times. She was exhausted of hearing her mother's perception of the world, where the world's occupants were more often than not, horrid, gargantuan thugs that hid away in dark alleyways in their spare time, just waiting for little children to ride by in their bicycles so that they could rip off all the rainbow tassels from the handles, and haul them into a potato sack. She still recalled a time in sixth grade when her mother had adamantly refused to sign a permission slip to go to the petting zoo. A _petting_ zoo. _Honestly._ Her mother's face would wrinkle in fear, as if it was bad parenting to send your child to a place where there were known goat terrorists on the rampage, mercilessly threatening the lives of young New York City school children.

She couldn't even make it past their front lawn without being interrogated and having her perfectly innocent motives incessantly questioned. But one day her mother would just have to realise that her daughter was no long six years old. Clary had waited ten years for that realisation to strike her, but evidently, it was a lost case. She would just have to let her mother know, by her own means. Sixteen years, Clary was held under the tightest restraints of her mother, with little objection from her side. It was out of sympathy; sympathy for a mother who had already lost a son, and she knew couldn't bear to lose her only other child. But she would just have to realise that Clary wouldn't be able to live within her dead brother's shadow forever. Freak accidents don't happen twice. They just don't.

Swallowing down her guilt, she held her phone away from her ear, suppressing an exasperated groan as her mother's rant vaporised in the wind. She paused, and briefly brought it back to her ear, feeling a wave of determination, powering the shock of cruelty she was about to deliver. 'Mom, I'm sorry, but I just… I don't _care _anymore. I don't care what you say, or do, or—just…' She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, 'just don't call me again.' She hung up, and switched off her phone.

A chilling wave shot up her spine. Guilt wracked her mind, but she shook it off, and headed straight for the bar.

She needed to forget this. And alcohol just _screamed _good choices that night.

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**TO BE CONTINUED in chapter 3.**

**(Jace that's you, you're up. Get up you rat bastard. Yes, you. STOP SLEEPING ON YOUR BEAUTIFUL GOLDEN LOCKS DAMMIT YOU'RE FLATTENING 'EM MATE. We need them in the next scene! they're the star of the show)**


	3. Chapter 3: Simon Says

**as promised..**

**Chapter 3: Simon Says**

A crowd had gathered around the bar, staring in awe and excitement at the bartender, who was bent 90 degrees backwards and appeared to be pouring blue liquor into five shot glasses balanced on his chest. He looked like he had just come out of a first-grade art class, with a mound of gelled up purple hair twisted in crazy glittery spires perched on his head, skimpily dressed in a metallic vest covering a bare chest. And thank the lord almighty, Clary shuddered, trying desperately—and failing— to wipe the mental image of indigo chest hair lathered in glitter and garnished with daisies out of her mind forever.

Clary placed herself calmly onto a stool, trying to order a Bacardi breezer whilst avoiding looking too deeply into the bartender's eyes- of which seemed to have some sort of cat's-eye-slitted-pupil thing going on. Contacts, no doubt. As she tried to pay by only looking through her peripheral vision, her eyes landed, instead, on a group of guys playing pool in one of the private snooker rooms to the side of the bar. The room choked with cigarette smoke despite the drawn back curtains, inviting all eyes to the five—no six—_very_ fit guys engaged in what appeared to be an intense game of pool. Clary recognised four of them as seniors from her school—all jocks with mixed reputations, which seemed to go along with their strikingly good looks.

Clary ticked off some of their names in her head: _Harper Moore. Jackson-something. Aaron Harvey. _A crowd of very whory-looking blondes had assembled around the corners of the room to cheer them on and, more likely, to have a pathetic excuse to stare at the man-dolls.

_Pfft, _Clary scoffed. _It's called admiring from a distance, ladies. _

Although Clary's knowledge of pool may have only extended to the understanding that players used a long stick to hit little coloured balls into little holes called pockets, regardless, it wasn't hard to tell who was winning. The fourth guy was clearly in the lead. Clary was certain she had seen him around school somewhere, yet she still couldn't put a name to the face for the life of her. _Correction: couldn't put a name to the inhumanly attractive face, as much as she wanted to._ She named him _Blondie _for her own purposes. Blondie looked like a Tommy Hilfiger spokesmodel in an expensive looking white shirt, subtly unbuttoned at the collar. Unlike the other players, he was standing away from the pool table, looking disinterested as he twirled his cue stick around in one hand, and watched Harper line up to take his shot.

The cue ball hit the triangular cluster, breaking the balls apart, but alas, none made it into the pouches. Harper sucked in a breath, cussed and threw his stick down as his mates riled him up. Blondie remained as neutral as ever, still leaning back on a set of clean cut shoulders as he watched. Three other guys made their way to the table, each taking their shot in turn, with varying degrees of success. Then it was Blondie's turn, and you could tell, because all eyes were turned on him then as he took a slow, almost lazy drag on his cigarette before making his way to the table. He flicked the butt of the cigarette behind him, looking intensely smug as he bent over the table to study the layout, examine the angles, and contemplate possible shots. His mouth flicked up in a lazy smile even as he examined the table with sharp, cunning eyes - almost predatory, flickering around the table as if tracking his prey. _Like a hunter, _Clary thought. _Except, also a lion. A lion hunter. Or the illegally hot love child of a lion and a hunter. And a bottle of hair gel. Mmm._

He balanced the cue elegantly in a guiding finger, before drawing back his arm as far as it could go. Clary was almost scared that he'd burn a hole into the green felt with the intensity of his gaze. But then he lifted his eyes—straight up. Without any warning, his bright eyes suddenly focused on Clary, all the way across the room, a very smug, andsuave as _hell _sort of half-smile lighting his face, as if he knew that she had been watching him for the past ten minutes. She felt her heart suddenly jolt to a stop and she tried to avert her eyes, but as soon as she looked back, his eyes were back to burning a hole into the felt, his hands firmly gripping the stick. Clary's cheeks had flared a fire-hydrant red, but even then she couldn't stop herself from watching. She grabbed a shot and downed it, feeling the burn dribble down her throat.

Blondie hit the ball with a quick strike, his arm shooting forwards with a refined sort of grace that made it seem like his arm was gliding through a body of water rather than trying to manoeuvre an awkwardly long stick. There was a sudden clack, louder than any previous, as the ball shot across the felt and ricocheted off the sides of the table, slamming directly into a pile of coloured balls. Two striped spheres dropped instantly into the pockets, on on the right side, the other in a center hole, as the white ball innocuously rolled to a stop. He spun on his heels dramatically as the girls in the corner giggled and whooped, showering him in awe and rubbing his arms as they surged towards him like a gaggle of stupid, witless geese nose-diving towards a bucket of grains or something. Blondie's male companions—the other players— just slapped him around a bit, laughing and shaking their heads as they watched the guy grinning cockily as he downed a shot offered to him by one of the girls.

'That's Jace.' A woman's voice suddenly spoke up scarily close to Clary's ear. '_Don't _go for him.'

Clary jumped. She turned around and watched as the woman slithered into the barstool next to her, her velvet stilettoes hitting against the metal. Isabelle. _Ah, the one and only._

'Oh, right, yeah. Of course,' Clary smiled uncomfortably, as her face lit up red with an unpleasant realisation. Any illusions she was having about him… him and her …faded away just like that. 'Is he your boyfriend?'

Isabelle suddenly let out a high-pitched laugh, 'Ha! That's… yeah. No, that's funny. Mostly disturbing, but funny.' She grinned and shook her head. 'God, no. He's an ass. I tend to steer away from asses; they tend to spray anyone decent with their shit. You should too, it'll do you a world of good.'

Clary hesitated. 'But he's so—'

'Hot?' she offered.

Clary opened her mouth to deny it.

Isabelle sighed, 'I know. We all know. Try and avoid telling him that though, he's already in love with his own face. He'd probably have walked it down the aisle already, if only he'd stop cheating on it every time anything in a short skirt walked by. But, by all means, if that's the kinda one night thing you're looking for…' she splayed out her palm in his direction, 'then go crazy.'

Clary glanced back over at him, before abruptly turning away. _Damn. Need. To. Wipe. Drool. Off. Face._ 'I don't…' She was going to say she wasn't interested anyway, but somehow she just couldn't get the words out.

How could anyone not be interested? She wondered how she had never noticed him before at school. He seemed pretty memorable now; just that hair. That _jaw_—like it had been hand-carved out of stone or ivory or something by like, a greek god. And those… luscious, _luscious_... Clary blinked. _Wasn't I doing something? _She paused._ I think I was talking to someone. Yes, I think I was. Isabelle. Oh, crap... Isabelle. Act casual and pretend that you aren't as creepy as you seem. _With great sadness, she tore her eyes away again, turning back to look at Isabelle, who no doubt must be…

_Oh. Well that's… okay too._ Isabelle had already forgotten about her, and appeared to be fixated on her next boy toy. Except that _boy,_ was the purple-haired bartender.

_Huh._

Clary sighed, feeling a little abandoned. Mr Sparkles and Isabelle seemed to be engaged in a very important conversation, him leaning over the counter towards her, with a sort of grim look on his face. It didn't really go well with the glitter, Clary noted.

They were talking in very hushed tones, the look on their faces a bit like they had just walked out of a graveyard.

'If you're sure,' Was all Clary caught of what Isabelle was saying in an uncharacteristically flat voice before curtly waving him off. She slid off the barstool, and just as she did, she turned and caught sight of Clary. For a brief moment, she looked purely startled, as if she'd forgotten she was there at all. She turned her bright green eyes back at her and in an instant, she was back to being _that _girl. That glitzy-glam girl.

'Oh, Clary!' She flashed her set of Colgate-advert-white teeth again. 'So, I was just talking to Magnus, and he's gathering everyone together for the martini pyramid. You should come. It's totally sweet.' She beamed, dragging Clary by the arm.

Ten minutes later, she found herself standing beneath the stage, listening to Isabelle's voice blaring out the speakers. There was a laser light display swivelling around a huge pyramid stacked with hundreds of tiny martini glasses. There was a huge bout of cheering and applause as Isabelle as two other bartenders began pouring a stream of multi-coloured 'non-alcoholic' liquor onto the top of the pyramid. Each of them had a bottle in each hand, and created six streams of liquor raining down on the glass display, ranging from fizzy acid greens to a vibrant turquoise. After more exclaims and cheers, the bartenders began disassembling the pyramid and the crowd began to disperse.

Clary watched as a green _MADE IN BROOKLYN _t-shirt began making its way towards her. It dived awkwardly through the crowd, sort of in a beheaded sea turtle kind of way.

'Clary!' Simon panted, finally reaching her.'There you are. Where the hell were you? I was looking for you for ages. You said you'd be two minutes.'

'Oh,' she bit her lip, and looked up at him sheepishly. 'Right. Yes, well I was.. I was ah...' She tried to feign a look of outrage, 'I was looking for you! As well... We must have been doing circles around each other,' she said, 'Where were _you _this whole time?!'

He adjusted his glasses. 'I was with Eric in the corridor. He was going on about some new boho, retro sort-of band that his second cousin or someone, is in. Actually, they're trying to find a keyboard player for their next gig, preferably female. Apparently they needed someone to balance out the 'raging testosterone',' Simon mocked the two words with very mature air-quotes. 'I said you might be interested, and that I'd ask- gahh,' he withered under Clary's outraged glare, 'well, I guess that's a no?'

'Simon. You cannot just go around signing me up for these_ gigs_ in Hoboken.' Clary gasped, throwing up her hands. 'I had two piano lessons when I was five. Unless the piece his 'band' is playing came out of Elmo's play-a-song book, then I don't think I'm what they're looking for.'

Simon held up in hands in defense, 'Fine, I'll tell him you still need some time to gnaw on it-'

Clary glared at him. 'No. You will tell him no. Definite no.'

Meanwhile, an un-glitterified bartender walked up to them, with a tray of martini glasses from the disassembled pyramid. 'Compliments of Isabelle,' he said, offering them each a drink.

'It doesn't have pineapple in it, right?' Simon asked the man. Simon was allergic to pineapple.

The bartender looked briefly perplexed. 'No, sir. No pineapple.'

'Thanks,' Clary smiled, before taking a sip. She choked. It was delicious. But _man, _was it strong. Definitely alcoholic; it smelt like the alcohol wipes they had at the health centre marinated in lemonade or.. guava juice or something else exotic that she couldn't quite put a name to. It had a punch to it- and by punch she meant, as it went down, it felt like something was physically _punching _and scraping the living hell out of the back of her throat. She spluttered, but even so, her hand automatically brought the glass back up to her lips for more.

A voice suddenly blared through the speakers—a familiar husky, British-accented voice that came attached to a slightly boozed-up, sandy haired hunk with muscles spilling out of the sleeves of his polo shirt. Ah, now _that_ was Isabelle's type of guy. Isabelle herself was standing alongside her boyfriend with her Covergirl grin plastered on her face, and her perfectly tanned spidery legs making everyone beneath her feel like Yoda or some midget albino hamster, eyes drawn to a carrot suspended high up in the air.

The guy with the sandy hair cleared his throat, 'Heeeeeey guys,' he said as he hugged the microphone to his lips, looking down at the crowd below with his dreamy blue eyes. Clary could bet that at least six girls fainted right then and there amidst the raucous mixture of cheering and squealing. He was the picture of drunken confidence as he raised his glass. 'For those of you who don't know, I'm Harper—the very, _very _lucky boyfriend of this _gorgeous_ girl to my right.' He shot Isabelle a wink, as he flung his arm drunkenly around her waist, slinging her towards him. 'I'd like all of you to spare… a moment of silence,' he said, his voice heavily slurred with drink, 'to celebrate the 17th birthday of my beautiful,_ beautiful_ Izzy-boo-bear.'

Simon gagged and grabbed for Clary's arm, pretending to throw up. Clary dug her elbow into his ribs.

'Breaking hearts since '94, baby!' He yelled, grinning and holding up his martini. The crowd went ballistic. There was the caterwauling whistling that you only heard at Justin Bieber concerts as they shared a brief kiss and Harper slid a tacky fuchsia _BIRTHDAY BABE_ banner over Isabelle's head.

And that was the last thing Clary saw before she blacked out. The horrifically bright pink of the banner stayed in her vision and seemed to smudge out all the other colours until there was only a blank canvas of magenta. Simon turned just in time to see his best friend's eyes widen in shock, lips parting as he yelled something. But his voice never reached her ears as her body drifted backwards. She felt a ring dig into her back as a sturdy pair of hands shot out to catch her.

But they weren't Simon's hands.

* * *

**A/N: **

**they were...**

**mine.**

**bah-boom. *self-insert here* **

**JOKES. hahh ha ha.. ahaha...**

**Guess you'll just have to wait it out till chapter 4, kiddos ;) **

**Meanwhile... since you're still here and all, please, let me get your coat for you. Make yourself comfortable in my little review box downstairs. Would you like any refreshments while you're at it? Perhaps some Bergamot for you, kind sir?**


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